Stopping by a Bus on a Snowy Evening
    by Robert Frostbitten

  Whose bus this is I think I know.
  His home is 'cross the river though;
  He will not mind me stopping here
  To watch his bus be topped with snow.

  My little bus must think it queer
  To stop each time we get so near
  To other buses that we see
  Parked at the malls or stores, like here.

  Its little engine idles rough
  To ask if I have had enough.
  The only other sound I hear
  Is wiper blades on snowy fluff.

  His bus is lovely, clean and bright,
  A pleasing note of all that's right.
  But I have traffic still to fight,
  And miles to go this winter's night.

and one by someone i don't know ... if you wrote this, please let me
know so i can put the credits on it. wasn't me. wish i had. :)

  Send in the Plows
  (author unknown)
  sung to the "Send in the Clowns)

  Isn't it white? Isn't it flat?
  The street is somewhere over there, beneath all of that ...
  Send in the plows.

  Don't we get weird, cooped up all day?
  Regress 'til we're Calvin and Hobbes! Go out and play!
  But where are the plows!
  Send in the plows.

  Just when I'd dug to the cars,
  Finally brushing them off to see which one was ours,
  Tried the ignition again, even got it to run,
  Another foot fell.
  Back to square one.

  I don't mean to bitch, or be unkind.
  But cross-country skiers on freeways are out of their minds!
  Call for the plows. How can they plow
  A street they can't find?

  Isn't it white? Isn't it bleak?
  Home on the modem today, one more net-geek.
  And where are the plows? There ought to be plows.
  Well ... maybe next week.

and remember, kids, don't eat yellow snow! ;)

unca joel